


Concerto

by Missy



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apples, Autumn, Autumn in New York, Canon Divergence - Jo Stays In New York, F/F, Falling In Love, First Time, Nannies, Romance, Writing, boston marriage, fall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: Jo didn't come to New York looking for love.  With a trunk filled with dreams and a plan to make good her fantasies of becoming a writer of worth, her stint as a governess of a family friend was meant to bridge the time and pad the money she sent home to dear Beth and her family.Then she meets the piano teacher of her young charges, and the direction of her entire existence changed.





	Concerto

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinlizzy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/gifts).



Jo wasn’t one for teas or for recitals, yet she sat with a belly filled with sweetmeats, carefully and daintily arranged in a stuffed chair among the excited friends of the Kirkes. Considering the stories hidden behind the eyes of those around her, Jo thought again of the afternoon, which had managed to pass by with little conflict and less stress and anxiety than she would have normally felt in such a setting. Again, her mind returned to the tea, the fluttery socialization, with many pleasantries bandied about around strangers. Meg flourished whenever she was set among other women and told to talk about the latest French fashions for an hour. Jo would rather talk about the latest bit of Dickens’ novelette, brought out in the Times the other day. Or she’d rather speak of the beauties of the world around them, or been at a lecture on art or poetry by one of Miss Norton’s friends. She might be taking a healthy walk in the park, or having an escapade on ice; something that would be fun, carefree and promote joy instead of civility.

Her wish was not to come true, at least for the afternoon. This was an important day for the children in her watch, and they were both atwitter to show off. Jo smiled and remembered her own impatient, impassioned younger self. Their piano teacher had been readying them for months for this recital, and Jo, while plying her watch and her education to their small lives, had promised to be there. Perhaps it was out of affection for Beth, dear sainted Beth, who wrote that she was weakening but still alive, still strong enough to sit beside the window and watch summer devolve into autumn, to occasionally press her delicate fingers to the keys of her piano, and dear Jo shouldn’t worry about her, shouldn’t make haste to come home until the children were on their winter holiday. “I can bear it,” she’d written in her now shaky hand, “for quite a while longer.” And so Jo sat in the fancy parlor of the Kirkes, thinking of her half-finished novel sitting upstairs among her things and longing for home.

“Miss March?” Jo looked up from the handkerchief she’d been balling up into a knot between her fists to see Miss Martin, the children’s piano teacher, watching her curiously. 

Jo had met the woman before – coming and going from the children’s lessons in a thick green velvet cape, a raft of sheet music tucked under her elbow – and had sat beside her during a concert, briefly noted that she smelled like fresh daises in the middle of the New York winter, which was something like a modern miracle. “I’m sorry, was I…?”

“Oh no, it’s just that you’re sitting in my seat,” she explained, and Jo immediately slipped over to the empty chair beside her, and sat down. She settled beside her. “Lovely afternoon. Wish I could be out in the sunlight enjoying it.”

Jo smiled at her choice of words. “Me too,” she admitted. “The wages of adulthood mean we must put the children first.”

“Even if they aren’t our own,” she said, rolling her eyes fondly. Jo thought Miss Martin was awfully young (and awfully pretty; even though she was a poor judge of such matters; even the most foolish person on earth would look at Miss Martin, see her golden curls and slender form and immediately judge her to be beautiful) to be this cynical. “I’m sorry. You must be awfully proud of the Kirkes.”

“Oh,” Jo said blandly, “yes, yes, of course.”

The corner of her mouth turned up. “I am too. Can’t say I know either of them particularly well at this point. I’ve heard you’re up from Concord?”

“Yes,” Jo said enthusiastically. “What gave me away?”

“Your accent. I suppose mine does too!”

“Boston?” Jo asked. 

“Actually, I’m from Charlestown,” said Miss Martin, her thick blonde ringlets tumbling back over her shoulder to tangle in the silver chain looped about her long, smooth neck.

Why in the world was she noticing her smooth neck? Jo felt her cheeks flush and sat up in her chair, stiff-backed, in a way that would have brought pride to Marmee’s constant, fond scolding. 

“Have you read the latest bit of Dickens in the paper?” she asked suddenly.

Jo’s eyes brightened. “Can you credit it? Poor Little Nell! I’d love to sock him in the nose!”

“You’ll have to get behind me,” she said. “I’ll be kicking at his shins.”

Jo chuckled. She saw the curtains they’d draped near the reception hall rustle, and realized that the children were ready. Miss Martin quickly caught on too, and rose to maneuver the children through the dance of music. 

 

 

****

**~~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~**

 

 

Miss Martin was at the house more often after the children’s recital. She always had an excuse to be with Jo in the parlor, or in the children’s play room; a book borrowed and returned, an article to show, an invitation to extend. The following week she asked Jo if she had a companion to the Woman’s Writing Salon. 

“Definitely not,” Jo said, “And I’d be delighted to accompany you.”

How easy it was to say such things! Jo had never been interested in any of the people surrounding the Kirkes. But with Annette – Nettie – conversation flowed smooth and easily. Lectures and museum nights turned into happy lunches, and the ink flowed from Jo’s quill, forming a beautiful story about a lovely woman with very long blonde hair.

She paused and sat, considering her newfound muse. She’d never written so frequently, so consistently, about anything in her life.

Jo asked no questions, and continued to press on.

 

 

****

**~~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~**

 

 

“Well, the proctor had charisma,” said Nettie, swinging her parasol saucily as the returned to the boarding house, “but the Esther had life. Did you see how she gestured? Like she was trying to shame Satan himself in the cradle!”

Jo nodded enthusiastically. “You know a lot about playmaking!”

“Oh, just a touch – my folks played for the church groups. That’s how I became acquainted with the piano.”

“My sister would be envious. She always did want to leave the house, to play for others.” Now it seemed unlikely it would happen. A shadow passed across Jo’s features.

“Is she sick?”

“She’s been weak since having a fever in her youth. But she’s rallied lately.”

“You’re lucky,” said Nettie. “My brother died years ago of fever.” Sympathy passed between them, a sense of camaraderie. Then she said, “I’m starving for an apple. I’d about sell my right toe for one.”

“Let’s have a few, and then take a walk in the park. I do require exercise after a good snack!”

“Me too!” she said.

Again, that sense of peaceful companionship passed between them, noticed but not remarked upon.

 

 

****

**~~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~**

 

 

The trees were bare, and all of the ponds iced over, when Jo finally got up the courage to show Nettie her work. Anxiously, she sat by as Nettie’s eyes brightened – as she smiled and laughed and quoted along with the story under her breath.

“What did you think?” Jo asked, when she put it down.

“It was delightful! Funny, sprightly – alive with the power of existence!”

Jo felt herself relax, felt her mind unwind, her muscles loosened. “I thought you might not like it. I’m afraid it’s a bit dramatic – not much of a moral.”

“I don’t believe every story should have a moral,” Nettie said quite firmly. “Some things ought to be made of pure pleasure.”

Jo felt her cheeks turn red. It was something she’d never considered. The power of writing for pleasure might just be as strong as providing her readers with a moral tale.

 

 

****

**~~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~**

 

 

In return, Nettie taught her to play piano in the Kirkes’ parlor. The instrument – always Beth’s domain – had never obeyed Jo’s heavy fingers. 

“Like this,” Nettie instructed gently, and placed her hand over Jo’s to guide it. 

Through Jo – through them both- heat radiated out and through the cool ivory that sang beneath their fingertips.

 

 

****

**~~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~**

 

 

They stood in the bower behind the garden, Jo with her valise, ready to take a train to Concord for Thanksgiving. She wouldn’t be back until February, when autumn was over, and the snows were thick and heavy.

“I’ll write you every day,” Nettie promised, wrapping her arms around Jo’s sturdy form. Jo squeezed back.

“More than every day,” Jo said, “I shall write so many letters that you shan’t be able to see your way to the door.”

A laugh. Nettie pressed away from her embrace, and there were tears in her eyes. “Oh Jo,” she murmured. “I’ve become terribly fond of you.”

And, without either of them directing the action, she leaned in and pressed her lips tight to Jo’s.

 

 

****

**~~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~**

 

 

In the cold of the Concord winter – with Meg’s squalling infants in her arms, with Beth’s sweet smiles gracing her heart, with Amy’s lively letters from Europe and with Marmee and Hannah fluttering about the kitchen, coaxing the sweetest smells from the crockery – Jo could feel the burn of that kiss, coaxing and provoking her onward through the festive sweetness of the season.

Letters passed in thick bundles between Nettie and Jo – across the short miles that separated them. Admonishments, reading recommendations, affection, anecdotes, and a heavy slathering of admiration were always the order of the day.

Only Beth noticed. Beth, who always knew her heart. “You’re in love, dear Jo,” Beth said, her thin fingers encircling Jo’s wrist. “I’m so glad to have seen it.”

Was this love? This strange thing, fluttering at her breast, a teasing question mark that made her giddy and kept her from sleep? She’s never experienced such a thing before.

She supposed it might be true.

 

 

****

**~~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~**

 

 

Lip to lip and breast to breast, they met in the kitchen of the Kirkes’ home. Upstairs in Jo’s room – smudged with ink, smelling of the snow and the damp - they came into themselves. They discovered their true feelings, with gentle hands and eager mouths.

 

Oh. So this was passion, filled with sweat and lust. This was the thing she’d only dreamed at while writing her pulpy smatterings of desire, her silly and hungry childish yearnings. 

Afterwards, they peeled an apple with a carving knife and shared big slices between them, giddily laughing at their fortune.

 

 

****

**~~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~**

 

 

Jo did come home now and again - of course to see her beloved Beth off, and to attend Laurie’s wedding to Amy. And her family came to New York too – when the apples were sweet and fresh from the trees. She and Nettie worked, improved, becoming each other’s best critic and sounding board. Nettie soon established her own music school near the heart of the best part of town, and Jo sold stories – some of them lurid, pulpy bits of fun, some of them moralistic tales of children with golden hearts who did the right thing. 

And always there were drawing room comedies or fantasies – and all of them about girls with golden hair and big eyes, who explored the world, who conquered boldly – and who always loved apples.


End file.
